Even Mr. Lightman, her self-proclaimed rent-a-dad, wasn't immune. When he placed "If it ain't country, it ain't music," on the powder fairy blue pickup truck, Shannie responded with, "Discourage Inbreeding, Ban Country Music!"
In the early 90's, when Russell had a run in with a group of skinheads: "Racists eat pooh!" made an appearance - only Shannie toughened the language a bit. The obligatory: "Challenge Authority!" had its day. When the Soviet Union collapsed and the Baltics were clamoring for independence, "Lithuania!" showed up.
The most telling, were the personal references. "Give me a coffee and no one gets hurt; Gravity gets me down; When I grow up I wanna be me!" Those showcasing Shannie's humor: "Deja Moo - the feeling you heard this bullshit before; The Gene pool needs a little chlorine; Mean people are cool." The more telling: "The Eve of Lilith; I found it and now my finger stinks; All I ever needed to know, I learned from porno; A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle; Crack, at least it ain't Marijuana; History doesn't remember well-behaved women; Suicide is a way of telling God -You can't fire me, I quit!"
"Spare me Just James," she sighed when I questioned her about the Suicide sticker. "For the fiftieth time - I'm not going to kill myself; I want to get do-gooders tits in a flutter."
"You sure?" I questioned.
"Geezus Pete, you're not going P.C.! If you have, help me find some rope. Okay?" I dropped the issue.
My parent's looked upon Shannie's car with horror. They had to have known the scourge of pestering that was in store for them. Then again maybe they didn't - that would have been par for the course. As my sixteenth birthday approached I dropped scores of hints. Most of my pleas were ignored. When I raised my voice; my father said: "Get a job, then we'll talk about it."
Hissy fits, usually very effective in my mother's presence, drew blank stares. I found myself wishing for old times - secretly hoping she'd launch a glass and a bevy of curses in my direction. "Talk to your father. I have a lot on my mind."
"He said talk to you," I answered.
"I'm telling you talk to him!" She snapped. It was an education in bureaucratic run-a-rounds.
My mother stared blankly at the kitchen's wallpaper. Her lawsuit against the Good Shepherd Non-denominational Church, the Reverend Mister Floyd Meaks, and the Krass Brother Funeral Parlor was scheduled for trial at the end of January.